


Jump

by Lines_of_Pain_and_Glory



Category: House M.D.
Genre: First Time, M/M, Post-Series, brief irreverent reference to prison rape just in case that might be a trigger for someone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 17:43:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2077245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lines_of_Pain_and_Glory/pseuds/Lines_of_Pain_and_Glory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson’s never been the risk-taker, but there was one risk House was never willing to take.  </p><p>A post-Everybody Dies first time fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jump

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not that he’d been under the illusion that dying was going to be fun. He’d seen it play out enough to know that for every guy who climbed Kilimanjaro and bathed in the river Ganges and made peace with man and God there were a dozen who died the way they’d lived: lonely, trapped, bitter. That could easily have been him, if it was just him, he wasn’t special, but House, House was the definition of special, usually with big sarcastic quotation marks around it. The thing that had drawn Wilson to him from that first night in New Orleans was that devil-may-care swagger and that speculative look in his eye that suddenly made the craziest things seem not just possible, but imminent. If anyone could pull off the last hurrah, the grand adventure, and go down metaphorical guns blazing, kicking in the gates to hell, it would be House and finally after all the years of having to be the one who tried to pull him back from the ledge, Wilson could just go along for the ride.

Except that ride somehow turned into a Groundhog-Day-esque blur of flat dry land, bad diner food, cheap motels, and blistering hangovers, punctuated only by the occasional black eye he got from being between House and whoever he was pissing off. Now he was lying in a puddle of his own sweat on what had to be the lumpiest mattress in all of Nowhereville, Wyoming, which he was sharing with House because there was some sort of hot tub trade show (Seriously?) in town. To add insult to injury the fat, pimply kid at the front desk had muttered a homophobic slur under his breath when Wilson told him they’d take the one room left, with the king size bed, because apparently the “straight” thing to do was to just let your best friend pass out on the sidewalk in a pool of his own vomit.

House rolls over and stares at him, eyes impossibly blue next to the neon red of the alarm clock. “I’m bored.”

It’s still the worst thing anyone’s ever said to him even though he’s expecting it and he wasn’t expecting, “You have six months to live.”

“So go home.” It’s not one of his pithiest comebacks even in the 4 am not really drunk anymore, but not quite to hung-over yet category.

“But I don’t like going to prison by myself, Jimmy.” He whines. “Hey, you want to rob a bank?”

Wilson groans, flipping onto his back. “No thanks, House, the list of things I’m willing to do for the pleasure of your company stops just short of repeated ass-rape.”

“Well, now I’m out of ideas. Wait…is rape the one where you’d say ‘no’?”

There was a time it would have sent a rush of blood to his face and another somewhere else, but the joke’s gotten old, worn thin. The thrill is gone. He realized a long time ago House will never do more than taunt him, doesn’t have the balls not to hide behind the plausible deniability of sarcasm.

“You know what your problem is?” He’s gotten the diagnosis wrong so many times.

“He’s about six-foot even and his eyes are, like, the dreamiest?”

Wilson leans forward until their faces are only inches from each other. “Yeah…that’s your problem and you’re too much of a coward to do anything about it.”

He liked to play fast and loose with his job, his reputation, his freedom, his patients’ lives and his own, but when it comes to the only thing, the only person, Wilson has any evidence House ever actually gave a damn about…

He watches emotions flash lightning quick through House’s eyes, fear and anger and regret. The one that lingers there looks suspiciously like hope. He licks his dry, cracked lips, pausing long enough that the words aren’t glib anymore when they finally come out. “I know you are, but what am I?”

He’s always known House was his problem, why none of his other relationships ever worked out, why he never had kids, why he turned down great career opportunities, why he never saved as much as he should have for retirement, why he could have ended up in jail and/or lost his license…on multiple occasions. He is a coward. He waited until he didn’t have anything else left to lose, until he had a calendar with 41 days out of 180 already marked off in his suitcase, until the only person within five-hundred miles who knew him from Adam besides House already thought they were gay anyway, but he’s at least a couple of seconds less of a coward because he’s the one who kisses House.

It feels like jumping off a building, like getting high, like playing with light sockets, electricity jolting through him as their bodies slam together, House seizing him and dragging him on top of him, moaning into his mouth, hardening cocks rubbing together through thin cotton, those strong, graceful fingers squeezing his ass.

“Fuck,” House breaks away gasping, “I’ve wanted to do that since I watched them patting you down in New Orleans.”

“God,” he groans, groping blindly between them, desperate to feel skin on skin, “why didn’t you?” They should have done this twenty years ago. They should have done this every day.

House stills under him. “Because you would have freaked out afterwards and run home to wife number one begging her to take you back and I would have never seen you again.”

A sad little laugh escapes from him, that’s exactly what he would have done, but House delaying gratification? “You knew me too well before you met me.”

“Never knew you like I wanted.” House mutters into his mouth, relinquishing half of his ass to wrap a hand around the erections Wilson’s managed to expose.

He has to try multiple times before his answer comes out as more than inarticulate sounds of need. “I’m not saying ‘no.’”

House grunts under him, his hand stilling…and then stroking them faster and harder. “Can’t wait…waited too damn long.”

He can’t wait either when he feels the hot slickness flowing over his cock, sliding between their stomachs. He comes too, shuddering and moaning until he collapses, dazed and exhilarated beside House, who looks unusually pleased with himself even for a guy getting laid.

“Still not boring?”

“I never said I was bored.”

House is still smirking at him.

He didn’t need to.

Wilson throws the calendar away. Every time he kisses House it feels like it’s the first time and the last, like a moment in free fall, a ketamine dream.


End file.
